


Talk Is Cheap [Part 2]

by lingering_nomad



Series: From the Ashes [5]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hawke has returned from the Deep Roads a brother poorer and a good friend's help is worth more than gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk Is Cheap [Part 2]

**Author's Note:**

> **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_  
>  **A/N:** Here's [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2597702). Inspired by [this post](http://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/post/116485528356/imagineagreatadventure-i-just-thought-this-set) on tumblr.

A dark spot skittered across the beam. Probably a spider.

Hawke stared at it, trying to distract himself from the noise drifting in through the broken pane in the window as a doxy plied her trade in the alley below. Another series of high pitched moans drifted in up, interspersed with a gruff litany of remarkably descriptive curses. The man’s voice carried the scratch of the foundries, though whether his slurring was due to lust or drink was impossible tell.

The ropes under Hawke’s mattress gave precariously as he shifted onto his other side, dragging the pillow over his head as he went. It might well be blasphemous to ask such a thing of the Maker’s Bride, but he was beyond caring as he prayed that the girl, Gelsey, would find favour the next time she sought a position at the Rose. And if Andraste wouldn’t heed him, it might well be time to take the matter up with Varric, see if Harlan had any strings the dwarf might be able to pull. Hawke had no love for the brothel, but a roof and three square meals, with Lusine and the Coterie to monitor patrons’ comings and goings seemed a better proposition than the squalid little cranny under Gamlen’s squalid little shack.

Asking the girl to conduct her business elsewhere had prompted only a blunt assessment of his masculine endowments and a proposition that left him queasy for the rest of the day. By his assessment, she had yet to see her eighteenth summer and her dark brown mop of spiralling curls reminded him too much of his sister’s for his peace of mind. He’d avoided speaking with her after that, until the night her moans turned to choking and he came sprinting down the steps to find her flailing helplessly as her bastard patron squeezed the air from her throat.

A broken neck was too merciful an end for the likes of that, but half-dressed and unarmed, it was the best he could manage – shy of calling on the Fade of course, but indebted to him or not, the Knight Commander’s bounty on apostates was too great a temptation for any street corner strumpet to pass up.

Sighing, Hawke shifted onto his back again and peered up at the rafters through the dark. He didn’t glance to the right. There was no need to. The emptiness of the other bed filled his awareness like a cold draught on naked skin.

Five months without tiding one way or the other, and Anders still insisted that Carver was strong; that he was probably busy with Warden training and _that’s_ why the family had yet to get word.

Hawke _clung_ to that hope.

But alive or not, it didn’t change the fact that his brother was gone. Just like their father, just like Bethany, and this time, there was no escaping the blame.

His father’s death had been swift as it was bloody: a scrimmage with templars while en route to Denerim to trade. With the Fade ripped from their grasp, it was two peasant blades against five armoured men. He’d never seen the elder Hawke fight as hard as he’d done that day, culling three of their assailants before being struck down. His father had died, but he’d died a free man. Wreath had come close himself, but Malcolm Hawke’s killers had not walked from that battle.

With the loss of his sister, the questions came: what if they’d fled sooner? What if he’d scouted ahead? What if he’d brought up the rear instead of taking point? What if he’d been quicker, stronger, better prepared?

What if…?

What if…?

What if…?

When all was said and done, though, it was the Blight. And there were no answers to be had, save Aveline’s assurance that at least the beast had been succinct in its carnage.

With Carver…

His mother had begged— _pleaded_ with him not to take her youngest from her. He’d made a promise and failed to honour it.

Hawke slung an arm across his eyes and swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. All the might of the Fade at his command, yet when it mattered most, it didn’t matter at all.

A scratch at the door jolted him from his thoughts.

A canine whine had him sitting up and a low, snuffling bark pulled him to his feet.

He pushed the door open and blinked back the light of candle and hearth to find a wide-eyed Mabari staring up at him, ears folded in entreaty. At the sight of his master, the dog huffed again and made a beeline for the front door, scratching pointedly to be let out.

“Oh. Sorry Wreath, dear. We didn’t notice. I could—”

Pushing loose tendrils of hair from his eyes, Hawke waved his mother’s offer away and followed the dog to the entrance. His uncle was ‘out’ for the evening. Whether at the Man or the Rose was a toss-up and even that was more than he cared to speculate on. As was frequently the case, his mother’s ‘we’ encompassed the elf seated beside her, several books, squares of parchment and chunks of chalk scattered across the table between them.

Fenris was by far the most diligent student she’d ever had. Even sweet Bethany’s enthusiasm would have withered after spending so many hours hunched over the same infantile text, but Fenris seemed near insatiable in his thirst for literacy.

Hawke quietly thanked the Maker for this.

The elven mercenary’s bloody-minded streak could needle like an entire branch of thorns in his side, but in this, he was desperately glad for the distraction it afforded his mother. Without it, Carver’ absence would have left a void too large to bear – and not just for her.

Varric was making strides in excavating the Deep Roads thaig they’d stumbled upon. What spoils Hawke had carried out with him were enough to keep the family in food and firewood clear through to Bloomingtide, and once serah Tethras found buyers for the rest…

There were times when all of this seemed too good to be true and Hawke shied from counting chickens that had yet to hatch. He’d gone back to chasing bounties, never mind that the world was that much larger and more imposing without another Hawke’s blade at his back. Reputation was _everything_ in this business. Competition was fierce and even a fleeting hiatus could bring about a loss of renown that took months to reclaim. Following his discussion with Fenris before the expedition’s departure, he was of two minds whether he would find the elf still in Kirkwall upon their return.

Not only had he stayed, the man had offered his blade as a supplement to Hawke’s and sat with his mother when her tears fell like salt on the raw edges of his soul.

Lifting the beam, Hawke pulled the door open and stepped out after his hound. As Arshavir trotted down the steps, disappearing ‘round a corner, he couldn’t help but contemplate the status quo of a dog having the grace not to void its bladder against the face of their home, while a drunken Gamlen had no qualms about doing just that. Hawke closed the door behind him and rubbed at his biceps for warmth, gaze panning the horizon through the mist of his breath. The fires of the Foundry District meant that Lowtown’s nights were never completely dark, casting the quarter in a golden twilight that might have been pretty if one could ignore the stink of smog and misery that accompanied it.

Silence never fully descended on the district, either. Despite the lateness of the hour, the air was abuzz with a miscellany of speech in the tongues of southern Thedas, equine balks and the creaking of wagon and cart. Music drifted from the direction of the tavern, carried on the swell and ebb of the sea from the docks. The wind whistled through the alleys, tinged with the odour of rot and rubbish and sharp with winter’s bite.

“Arsha! Hurry up, boy!” Hawke called out as his lack of shirt and tunic became more lamentable with each moment that passed. He received a low whine in response, as if telling him to be patient. He braved a few more seconds, shivering in earnest, teeth starting to chatter. “Blight take it. ’m freezing my bollocks off out here,” he groused under his breath and succumbed to the temptation of four walls and a fire.

Closing the door behind him, he pressed a shoulder against the wood, waiting for Arsha’s scratch to be let in.

Over at the table, Fenris had begun to read: ‘The Tale of the Silver Slipper,’ if Hawke was not mistaken. It’d been among Bethany’s favourites, though the copy she’d learnt from was but one more thing his family had lost to the Blight. Even slightly halting, the elf’s rich baritone lent an uncommon charm to the saccharine prose.

“…dark and still, leaving only the clock on the mantle to _wit_ -ness her re…. _re_ -bel—”

Hawke watched, hidden behind his hair as the elf’s nose crinkled in concentration. It was an unexpectedly adorable expression on the stoical man’s comely features, and Hawke bit the inside of his cheek to keep his smile from spreading.

“Re- _bel_ -lion,” Fenris managed at last, sounding triumphant. “She came to her room, where her eyes fell upon the lak…las—” There was a pause. Fenris’ expression shifted from focus to frustration and he sat upright in his chair, pointing at the text.

Mother leaned in. “ _’Lacerated_ ,’ dear. It means ‘cut into ribbons.’”

Fenris nodded and resumed reading where he’d left off, “the la-ce _-ra-_ tedgown. The cinder girl wept, for without her mother’s he—hei—”

Another break; another nudge.

“...without her mother’s _heir_ -loom, how was she to pre _-sent_ herself at the ball and catch the eye of the prince? As she wept, she… _sang?_ ” Fenris paused again, brow arched, though this time his confusion seemed directed at the plot rather than the grammar. Grimacing slightly, he continued, “she sang to _pro-_ claim her heart’s _de_ -sire. Before her song was done,” the tale went on, “a bird a- _ligh_ -ted on the windowsill.  ‘Twas no or- _di_ -nary bird, but a fairy in dis- _guise_ , come to answer the cinder girl’s plight.”

Fenris stopped reading and set the book down on the table. His expression, when he turned to his tutor, was troubled.

“Is _this_ what human children are taught?” he asked, incredulous. “There aren’t any ‘fairies’ – let alone benevolent ones. And why does this girl expect a prince would show her special regard? She is little more than a slave, no matter her lineage. She makes many assumptions about the whims of a man she has yet to encounter, and at great risk. Her mistress is ruthless. If she is discovered, she will be harshly punished. It is beyond foolish to even conceive such a scheme, let alone attempt it.”

Mother set down the handkerchief she was embroidering and peered at the book, brows knit as she considered the elf’s misgivings. “Well,” she began, “it _is_ a children’s story. It is meant as an escape from the trappings of ordinary life.” She raised a hand, gesturing at the cottage around them. “Its purpose is to let a child pretend that, whatever her circumstance, she too can live in a castle and wear pretty gowns and win the heart of a prince.” Leandra’s smile grew wistful. She glanced down and Hawke knew in his gut that she was looking at her wedding band, still on the fourth finger of her left hand nearly five years after being widowed. A farmer and swordsman, its twin had been adapted to pierce the lobe of his father’s left ear in life. In death, it’d passed to his heir.

It was a rarely acknowledged truth that his parents’ vows of matrimony had not been officiated by the Chantry and were therefore only as binding as the couple themselves had chosen to make them.

“More importantly perhaps,” his mother went on, “the moral of this tale is rooted in hope; to never resign oneself to a life without. Sometimes, it is not about a prince or an elevation in wealth and status, but _purpose_. Daring to believe that it’s _there_ and worth pursuing, even when it would be easier to resign oneself to a life of banality. There are things that seem foolish, even reckless – likely because they _are_ ,” she shrugged, chuckling. "But there are times when the measure of wisdom lies in knowing when to question; when to stand still and consider, and when to simply _leap_. The cinder maid endures so much cruelty, yet she never loses faith that she too is worthy of love. And in the end, her boldness is rewarded.”

Hawke glimpsed the bob of Fenris’ throat as he swallowed. The flame of the candle danced in his eyes, wide and uncannily soulful as he listened. “But,” the elf rasped when Leandra fell silent, “how can she claim to…have affection for this prince? He could have a dozen, a _hundred_ of her ilk at the snap of his fingers, yet she believes he would favour her exclusively? She has never even laid eyes on him. At best, she is auditioning to—to become his whore.”

There was an edge of shame in the words, sharp enough that Hawke felt its sting slide home behind his own ribs.

“ _Had I known Anso would find me a man so capable…_ ”

A sigh lodged in Hawke’s throat. He was not the most astute man when it came to interpreting signs of carnal interest, particularly (and rather ironically) when coming from other men.

It was said that passion was to magic as kindling was to flame and the most rudimentary manifestation of this maxim occurred during sex. Mages in the throes of ardour sometimes experienced a brief surge in their mana; the equivalent of a climax in the Fade, if you will. Proper casting required intent and since the phenomenon was by its nature involuntary, it rarely amounted to more than a show of lights. Dangerous only to an apostate wishing to conceal his magic from his partner, and any friends or family of his who depended on his secret staying just that.

Hawke had no intention of passing his burdens onto a lover and fleeting affairs were not worth the risk. He’d learned to watch for certain looks from women, a smile, a wink, a flip of the hair, allowing him a chance to deflect lest he find himself routed into awkward conversations.

Fenris, however, had caught him utterly by surprise.

Prior to that fateful discussion, he hadn’t so much as suspected that the elf’s lust might be roused by another man. Not willingly and least of all by one of the human mage persuasion, but there’d been no mistaking the invitation extended on the eve of Hawke’s Deep Roads excursion. He recalled the demure slant to the Tevinter’s ever alert posture; the half-lidded gaze through long, sooty lashes; the coy tilt of bow-shaped lips…

The offer would have been devastatingly enticing, had he not also spotted the stiffness in the younger man’s shoulders; noted the slightly flat air of rehearsal in his tone. Hawke was a life-long apostate who’d earned renown as a smuggler. Spotting the slightest nuance of a lie was an obligatory talent of his, and besides, a knack for deception had never ranked highly among Fenris’ skills. He   might have been offended at the implication that he would use another – a _friend_ – in that way, had he not had an inkling of the context that spurred it.

The very reason he’d gone up to Hightown was to give Fenris the book. Verified by Athenril’s contact to be a work of Shartan, it was as much a token of amends for dragging him into the mess with Thrask and the Starkhaven apostates, as inducement to keep an eye on Hawke’s mother and uncle while he and Carver were gone.

Blighted Maleficarum.

Should’ve slaughtered the lot in the cave like he’d wanted.

Not that he ever relished turning his blade on his fellows, but once a mage succumbed to the lures of demons and blood, the price of their freedom was weighed in the suffering of others and that went against everything he believed.

“… _What about Merrill?_ ” Anders had countered, invoking the _one_ instance where Hawke had gone against his principles and allowed a blood mage to live.

“ _Merrill is young and impassioned. She acts out of naiveté, not wilful contempt! You heard what that boy – Alain – said out there: these are mages of the Circle. They cannot fall back on ignorance as an excuse!_ ”

“ _And you’ve never been confined to a tower, Hawke! Your parents risked everything to keep you from it. Why do you think that is?_ ”

And because he couldn’t argue, Wreath had relented, paving the way for their run-in with Knight Lieutenant Karras and his men “… _Arrest the lot. The knife-ear you can deliver to my chamber. I’ll interrogate_ him _personally.”_

The bulk of what followed was a blur in Hawke’s mind, save for the knight’s eyes, soulless as a snake’s, slithering like cold oil along Fenris’ form. That, and the look that crossed the elven warrior’s features: one of a man too accustomed to cavalier predation, resolved to die fighting rather than submit.

Not that day, though.

Wreath recalled the rush of the Fade as it pulsed from his palm in warning. “ _Step back, templar!_ ” There was the chime of his sword as it slid free of its sheath and the brash indignation of those unused to being opposed.

Two nights later, in the relative safety of his manse, Fenris had been too tense for his stab at seduction to be born out of habit. Agency over his person was all the former slave truly owned and he did not relinquish it freely. Hawke had his own experience of being hunted, but it’d never been a burden he’d shouldered alone.Fenris did not dare remain in Kirkwall sans a guarantee of support should his master’s hunters return and thus, with Hawke declaring his debt repaid, unfamiliar with the symbiosis of friendship, he’d resorted to quid pro quo. It was the elf’s attempt at holding fast to what he feared losing and easing his mind was simple enough. Hawke had reiterated the care of his kin as the price of allegiance and Fenris agreed, evolving into shared meals, shared memories and scenes like that evening’s in Gamlen’s front room.

Hawke had expected any hint of erotic awareness to quietly perish. Despite himself, though, he’d searched for clues to the contrary – a stolen glance; a hint of a blush – and tallied more than he could blithely dismiss. Whatever the elf’s reservations, his attraction did seem to be genuine.

As if lured by Hawke’s thoughts, green eyes darted his way, only to skitter back to the book almost at once. His mother’s gaze followed, both questioning and knowing, and Wreath ducked his head, seeking refuge behind the fall of his hair as inexplicable warmth rose in his face. He felt her regard linger, like a physical weight, before turning back to her student.

“It’s a valid question,” Leandra conceded, referring to Fenris’ probe into the cinder girl’s motives. “The maid cannot know how the prince will perceive her, or she _him_. Perhaps, at the back of her mind she’s wracked with doubt. She’s quite likely frightened. As you say, terrible things can come from her choice, but she _chooses_ not to be bound by fear. She takes a chance to become more than what others had made her – _that_ is the first of her victories. Even when all seems lost, she doesn’t give up. She asks the air itself for aid and when it comes, she embraces it. When she stands before the prince, she does so in triumph. The tale calls him ‘wise.’ How can he then look upon one who has conquered so much and _not_ feel admiration?”

Fenris frowned, his expression thoughtful. He’d picked up a shard of chalk and was rolling it between his fingers, staining them white. “The stories told in Tevinter are…different,” he said, voice low as if imparting a secret. “Slaves are not…encouraged to indulge in such thoughts.”

Something in Hawke’s breast twisted at the admission and he cast his eyes to floor. He knew that Fenris wouldn’t have spoken, had the words not been meant for his ears, but the knowledge did little to assuage his sense of intrusion. His mother’s chair creaked as she shifted.

“You are no longer in Tevinter, Fenris. Indulge away.” There was safety in her tone; the infectious faith that all would be well. It was a streak Wreath recalled from childhood, though it’d gone unheard for years.

“We can leave off here if you like?” Leandra offered.

For a moment there was silence, then, “I think I would prefer to finish the chapter. If you approve?”

“Of course.”

Fenris resumed reading.

Arshavir’s scratch came at last and Hawke let him in, in time to see Gelsey’s patron slink off into the night. Calling the girl’s name confirmed that she was not only alive, but once again trawling for business. He shut the door briskly before the details of her latest offer could filter through and trudged back to bed. This time, he left the door ajar, allowing the cinder maid’s adventure to trickle in in Fenris’ lilting, accented cadence.

Wreath dozed, awareness poised on the brink of the Fade, yet the respite of true sleep remained elusive.

The scrape of chairs in the living room and murmured words of thanks signalled the end of the evening’s lesson. The typical exchange followed: Mother would invite Fenris to stay. The elf would decline. Mother would insist that it was too later for the slog back to Hightown, to which Fenris would cite his reluctance to intrude, followed by Mother’s assurance that he needn’t fear.

More often than not, Fenris would restate his thanks and depart, leaving Hawke to toss and turn until the morrow and breakfast granted him an excuse to trek uptown and ensure the elf’s safe arrival.

Every so often, though, the pattern would break, polite refusal turning to grudging acceptance. This night was to be one such exception.

“If you’re certain it’s not an inconvenience...”

“Of course, Fenris, don’t be silly! You’re doing an old woman a service not having to fret over you out there in the cold by yourself.”

Fenris muttered something which stirred a surprised sounding laugh from Wreath’s mother. “ _You_ , messere, are quite the charmer,” she positively tittered. “Now, off to bed with you.”

The light from the living room dimmed as Mother bore the candle to her room; one she’d shared with Aveline for several months. Wreath knew she was glad for the extra space when the now Captain of the Guard took up her station at the barracks, though he reckoned she found the solitude about as agreeable as he did.

The door groaned open, then shut and Hawke felt something ease as the other man’s presence chased the ghosts from the room. He listened to the rustle of clothing being divested, the soft drag as the bedding was turned. There was the creak of ropes, the crackle of straw and a quiet sigh of fatigue.

“G’night Fenris,” he mumbled.

A pause and then, “Benenoctem Hawke.” He was closer to the Fade than he’d realised, for he could swear he’d heard a smile in that voice.

As he drifted to sleep, Hawke was left with the thought that Carver was gone.

Nothing would change that.

But Fenris was here, and that would do.

**Author's Note:**

>  **End A/N:** I highly recommend [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2405567) by taranoire. Her take on stories Tevinter elves grow up with is canon in my 'verse.


End file.
